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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24158500">White Picket Fences</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbox/pseuds/inbox'>inbox</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Psychic Load [13]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Cable (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Punisher (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Brainwashing, Kidnapping, M/M, Memory Loss, Rescue, Telepathic Bond, Telepathy, pure self-indulgent cheese</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 20:27:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,407</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24158500</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbox/pseuds/inbox</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's everything Frank’s ever wanted; a good job and a wonderful husband and the Lord blessing him with two great little girls that he spoils rotten. It’s a great life. Frank couldn't imagine anything better. Frank <i>will</i> never imagine anything better.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Frank Castle/Nathan Summers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Psychic Load [13]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1367605</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>White Picket Fences</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Life is good for Frank. Married six years in June to Aaron, a beaming proud father to Junie and Kate. Frank wakes at seven each Saturday morning and does the gardening around their tidy bungalow, pulling weeds and mowing the lawn. If the weather is good he sweeps the porch and washes his pearl grey 2006 Honda Odyssey, if the weather is bad he cleans the garage and ignores the basement. The family goes to Mass on Sunday, all of them together in their hardy suits and swifty-outgrown best dresses. They always sit on the left side of the church, close enough that his girls can watch the smoke from the thuribles slowly rise into the rafters, best behaviour guaranteed by the promise of a big diner breakfast afterwards.</p><p>It's everything Frank’s ever wanted; a good job and a wonderful husband and the Lord blessing him with two great little girls that he spoils rotten. It’s a great life. Frank couldn't imagine anything better. </p><hr/><p>“Frank?”</p><p>Frank looks up from where he’s pruning a thicket of catmint, gamely attempting to shape it back into something contained before winter sets in. He doesn’t recognise the giant of a man leaning over the fence, and he’s got a face Frank would recognise in a heartbeat. </p><p>Hard to forget a face that beat-up and cut through with scars. Hard to forget a head full of bright silver hair.</p><p>“Yeah?” he says cautiously. “Who's asking?”</p><p>Big Fella laughs and tells him to cut the shit. “I've been looking for you everywhere, Frank. Logan’s been scouring the eastern seaboard for the past week, I lucked out a few days ago. Caught a hint of your shape on the psionic plane. Wherever they've got you is well guarded, psychically speaking, but--”</p><p>Frank tightens his grip on the secateurs in his hand and sits back on his heels, scowling at the stranger. He's clearly out of his mind, babbling nonsense bullshit. Frank's not much of a fighter, hasn't been in a fistfight since high school, but this guy is huge and insane and hanging over his garden fence, and Frank is keenly aware that his daughters are playing around the side of the house. </p><p>Big Man trails to a halt, the humour in his expression gone in an instant. He eyeballs Frank with clinical curiosity, sizing him up.</p><p>“Mister,” he starts. “Whatever you're selling, I'm not interested.”</p><p>“Frank--”</p><p>That does it. Frank gets to his feet and points the secateurs at the stranger making a hash out of his meditative Saturday morning pruning. “Don't remember telling you my name, chief.”</p><p>“Hey,” says Big Man, stepping back from the fence. “Hey now.” He raises his hands up, palms turned out, like Frank is the one being unreasonable. “It's Cable. Nathan. C’mon Frank, don’t start--.”</p><p>“I don't know any Nathans,” says Frank tersely. “Not looking to make the acquaintance of any either. Move on or I'll call the police.”</p><p>“Whoa, whoa, <em> whoa</em>,” says so-called Nathan. “Time out, Castle.”</p><p>“Count of five,” says Frank, clutching the secateurs so tight his knuckles ache. He hopes to god he looks more threatening than he feels. Big Man looks like he can take a solid lick or ten before he'd stagger, and Frank’s not exactly confident he can land a hit.</p><p>“I'm going,” says Big Man, backing up onto the footpath. “Knives down, Frank. I'm going. Don't want to get the police involved, right? The police here at…?”</p><p>“You know where you are,” says Frank. <em> Stupid asshole</em>. “Leave right now or I'm calling the cops.”</p><p>The big man looks at him, worry written all over his square face and lips pursed tight. “Wish you'd wake up, sweetheart,” he says. “Can't find you if you don't wake up.”</p><p>“Not your sweetheart,” Frank says. “The hell is wrong with you?”</p><p>“Must have you mixed up with someone else,” says Big Man, with just enough of a pause to give away that he's both lying and not making any attempt to hide it.</p><p>Frank watches him leave with a deep scowl on his face, wiped away the second his girls come racing ‘round the side of the house at maximum speed and grabbing at his legs to corner themselves sharply. No need to worry them by being upset. Frank would just about chop off his own hand than see his girls upset in any way. </p><p>“Tess said she'd cut the hair offa Malibu Barbie!”</p><p>“Did not, liar.”</p><p>“<em> Daddy</em>.”</p><p>“Nothing wrong with a crew cut,” Frank says, smoothing over his lingering mix of fear and worry from the minutes previous, smiling and waving away the flurry of tiny-fisted blows raining down on his leg. “C’mon Holly, don't you think I'm cute with short hair? Malibu Barbie wishes she looked as good as me.”</p><p>He pointedly doesn't look up. He can feel the heat of Big Man’s stare as he watches them from across the road, watching Tess and Holly use Frank like a shield, slapping at each other and giggling to the point of hysterics. He holds out ‘til he can't help himself any longer and looks out of the corner of his eye, making a half-hearted attempt to be subtle.</p><p>Big Man has gone. Frank looks up and down the street, distracted as he lets World War Three happen at his feet, but he's nowhere to be seen. Not disappearing down the footpath, not taking the fence into someone’s yard. Gone, dusted, and he’d feel a whole lot better about it if he didn’t still feel like someone was watching him.</p><p>“Hey,” he says, holding his girls apart with a hand on each of their foreheads, letting them windmill their fists frantically in the air in a vain attempt to strike first blow. “You know the rules. Fight night happens in the house, not where people can see you.”</p><p>Maybe Frank will call the police later and report the unsettling incident, just in case. Green Hills has always been such a safe place, a perfect spot to raise his family. He'd like it to stay that way.</p><hr/><p>Most nights Frank gets up ‘round two in the morning, regular as clockwork. He belts his bathrobe loose around his waist and pads down the stairs barefoot, walking quietly with his weight on the balls of his feet so as not to wake his sleeping children, and goes straight to the fridge. Milk from the carton most nights, orange juice tonight; always something that tastes better when unshackled from the parental responsibility of being observed doing exactly what he tells his kids not to do.</p><p>Frank stands in front of the fridge, blearily staring into the golden light cast from the open door chugging juice straight from the bottle. It takes him a good long while to notice the man sitting on the back patio, idly swinging himself an inch or two back and forth on the swing seat, the toe of his boot braced against the oiled wooden deck for leverage. </p><p>Frank blinks.</p><p>He should call the police. He should grab a knife from the block on the kitchen island and puff himself up, make himself threatening. Frank should do a whole lotta things, ‘cept all he can do is sway on his feet as a sense of overwhelming relief bubbles up from deep within his chest, surging up and out so powerful that he drops the orange juice all over the lino and and takes what feels like his first breath in days, in weeks, in months.</p><p>The man outside smiles at him, lopsided and warm, and pushes himself back on the swing seat again.</p><p>Frank opens the patio door slowly, holding it just-so so it doesn't squeak on its runners. “Are you looking for me?”</p><p>The man nods. “I've been looking for you for weeks.” He pats the bench next to him. “Are you okay, Frank?”</p><p>“How’dja know my name,” he says doubtfully, even as something deep his brain says, <em> good, good, you're here, good, good. </em></p><p>“I'm Nathan,” says the big man. “Do you remember me?”</p><p><em> Yes. </em>“No,” he says. “Do we know each other?”</p><p>The big man - Nathan, Frank thinks, Nathan, Nathan - gives him that same lopsided warm smile and pats the swing seat again. “Yeah,” he says. “We’re close. I've been looking for you everywhere.”</p><p>“I’m here,” he says, taking a seat next to Nathan <em> Nathan Nathan Cable Nathan. </em> “Always here.”</p><p>Nathan has sad eyes, he thinks. One is bright blue and the other is clouded and milky. When he smiles the corners of his eyes wrinkle up, one side pinched up with old scars. He looks handsome, Frank thinks vaguely. He looks good. Looks right.</p><p>“Bright Lady,” says Nathan under his breath.  “Do you know where you are? Anything you can tell me.”</p><p>He holds out his hand, unembarrassed at the way Frank has paused just long enough to be awkward, staring at the sheer size of Nathan’s hand. Thick fingers, broad palm, big enough that his fingers wrap ‘round the side of Frank’s palm and press against the back of his hand. He reaches over and takes Frank's hand, careful and gentle, and rubs his thumb over Frank's knuckles.</p><p>Frank opens his mouth and nothing comes out. He sways on the seat, hears the wood creak, then there’s blackness. So much black, filling him up, falling backwards into endless nothing.</p><hr/><p>Life is good for Frank. Married six years in June to Peter, a beaming proud father to Lucy and Annie. Frank wakes at seven each Saturday morning and does the gardening around their tidy bungalow, pulling weeds and mowing the lawn. If the weather is good he sweeps the porch and washes his cream 2014 Dodge Caravan, if the weather is bad he cleans the garage and ignores the basement. The family goes to Mass on Sunday, all of them together in their hardy suits and swifty-outgrown best dresses. They always sit on the left side of the church, close enough that his girls can watch the smoke from the thuribles slowly rise into the rafters, best behaviour guaranteed by the promise of a big diner breakfast afterwards.</p><p>It's everything Frank’s ever wanted; a good job and a wonderful husband and the Lord blessing him with two great little girls that he spoils rotten. It’s a great life. Frank couldn't imagine anything better. </p><hr/><p>Frank isn't much of a drinker. He has a beer with dinner, maybe a drink at the work picnic, but generally his social drinking is limited to sipping a draft at O’Douls on a Friday afternoon, staying just long enough for the afternoon sports previews. S’good wind down for his week, finally untethered from the office and ready to spend his weekend with his family.</p><p>There's a man at the end of the bar who turns and catches Frank's eye when he walks in. He's a big guy with a shock of nearly white hair, broad across the shoulders and tall enough even sitting down that it's clear if he stands up he's gonna tower over Frank.</p><p>He should go home. He should ignore the warm tendril of interest that curls in his gut as their eyes meet, sparking hotter as the man pulls out the stool next to him in silent invitation. </p><p>Frank hesitates, making himself do the right thing, but the big guy gives him a crooked smile and that's it, he's done. There is a cliff under his feet and Frank is racing alongside it, ground crumbling at his feet. Frank isn't inclined by nature to willingly chase a mistake because it feels right, but there's a first time for everything.</p><p>Frank is the first to admit that he's blessed with little in the way of a creative imagination, but walking across the bar, playing cool and unbothered as he takes the proffered seat, has got his brain is sparking up like a pinwheel. <em> Familiar, </em> his brain insists. <em> Good, good, familiar.  </em></p><p>Big Man nods at the bartender when he's halfway across the room. By the time Frank takes a seat his beer is set at his elbow before he can ask for it. Draft, an inch of head, frosty mug. Same as he always gets. He takes a sip and licks the foam from his top lip, and says, “We know each other?”</p><p>Big Man tears his eyes away from Frank's mouth, looks guilty for a moment. Caught staring at something he shouldn't be watching. Frank licks the corner of his mouth, watches Big Man's eyes track straight back to his lips. </p><p>“I think so,” he says. “I’d like to get to know you.” </p><p>“If you say so,” he says, trying for aloof and ending up sounding just mildly pissy. </p><p>“I’m Nathan,” he says, unperturbed by Frank's half-assed attempt at playing it cool. He turns slightly on his seat, elbow on the bar, just enough that he can look at Frank to his fill. </p><p>Frank shouldn't look back at him in turn. He should say thanks for the drink and move to the other end of the bar. He should leave entirely and go home early, back to Tom and the girls, start making dinner and settle any arguments over what to watch for movie night. </p><p>Instead he's rooted to the spot, mouth parched, watching the way Big Man rubs his hand through his hair, the bunch and flex of the thick muscles in his arms. For a moment, ephemeral and brief, he feels the inexorable urge to step forward and press his mouth against the thick swell of muscle at his shoulder, rub his cheek against the cotton of his shirt ‘til it catches at his stubble, breathe in the tart sweat ground into the creased sleeves of his shirt.</p><p>The hot twist in Frank's gut starts again. Big Man - Nathan, he says to himself, Nathan, committing it to memory - wants him, he realises. It feels good. He’s not… he’s not used to it, not used to feeling wanted by a stranger. Frank doesn’t turn heads. That’s always been Jason, shining bright in their marriage with Frank as his contented shadow with their little girls at his side.</p><p>Frank doesn't get people looking at him like he's tender fruit, especially strangers. Big Man looks like he wants to eat Frank alive then and there. It makes Frank feel ravenous in turn, hungry for something he's never wanted before. </p><p><em> Dangerous, </em> he thinks. <em> Dangerous thoughts. </em> He forces himself to look away, to look at the bottles behind the bar, pretending he isn't watching their reflections in the grainy yellow mirror set into the back wall. Nathan’s thick fingers mark the beat of the Springsteen song playing through the tinny speakers behind the bar, drumming on the damp cloth runner spread on the bar top.</p><p>“Nathan,” Frank says, more into his beer than to anyone else. “You new to the area?”</p><p>“Something like that.” He catches Frank's eyes in the mirror. He glances down to Frank’s mouth, down to the unbuttoned collar of his polo shirt. “I’m here to see the sights, I guess you might say.”</p><p>“That's all?”</p><p>“For now,” Nathan says, and takes a deep chugging swallow of his beer. Frank watches the way his throat rises and falls, watches the silvery stubble on his jaw catch the light, and permits himself a brief moment of clarity to acknowledge that he's over-balancing on the edge of a whole nest of trouble. </p><p>The thought rings with déjà vu. <em> Huh, </em>thinks Frank. </p><p>“You gonna tell me your name?” Nathan is teasing him, Frank realises with a hot flush of heat crawling up his neck. “I bet it's something nice.”</p><p>“It's Frank,” he says. His ears feel hot, 'specially when Nathan repeats it thoughtfully, rolling his name on his tongue like it's something to be savoured. Sounds good in his gravelly voice. He thinks about what it'd be like to hear that voice pant his name, straining with effort and heavy at his back, and just as fast wrenches his idle mind away from such dangerous, dangerous thoughts.</p><p>“Tell me about yourself, Frank,” says Nathan, setting his beer back on the bench top. <em> Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, Cable. </em> “How long have you been here in--?”</p><p>“Green Hills,” says Frank. “Be about six years now. Got married to John five years ago, so that's about right.” He focuses on his beer. </p><p>“Married, huh?” Nathan gives him an unreadable look, eyes searching his face before he smiles at him, lopsided and handsome. The scars ‘round his eye wrinkle up when he smiles, familiar and unfamiliar. “He must be a lucky guy, scoring someone like you.”</p><p>Frank feels the heat starting to bloom in his chest, a fizzy hot sizzle of want that he swallows down. “I’ve done okay.”</p><p>“I’ll bet.” Nathan picks up his beer, pauses, then sets it down again. “Green Hills,” he repeats thoughtfully. “Sounds like a nice place. We’re, what, a few hours north of New York?”</p><p>“Couple of hours,” Frank says. “Near.”</p><p>“Near?” Nathan twists all the way on his seat, facing Frank head-on and watching him with hawk-like interest. “Near where?”</p><p>“Near…” Frank blots his palms on his thighs, prickling with sudden sweat. He feels sick. “North.”</p><p>“Frank.” Nathan grabs his hand and it feels like he’s been shot in the guts, swooping nausea, free falling backwards. “You have to fight through it. Fucking <em> come on, </em> sweetheart, I know you ca--.”</p><p>Frank wakes up in his bed, cold sweat staining his pillow. The room is dark, deep dark, the alarm clock on his bedside table reads 0324. He creeps down the stairs in his bare feet, making it to the bathroom to throw up in near-silence, knees aching as he kneels on the beige tiles. As he empties his stomach Frank wonders how he knows what being gut-shot might even feel like, then the room sways and he gags again and the thought is gone.</p><hr/><p>There are moments when Frank feels like he's going crazy. There’s something there. Something he can’t get a grasp on; a face he can't place, a name on the tip of his tongue. An unfamiliar voice in the street who calls his name, someone long gone by the time he turns around. A hand on his shoulder, a touch at his waist; something ephemeral and formless that sticks in his mind, unshakable.</p><p>Frank finishes his work day and drives the long way home, knuckles blanched white on the wheel. He makes dinner and watches Sports Report from the comfort of his recliner and stews silently, lost in his thoughts. That evening, long after the girls are put to bed, he confides to Terry that something is wrong, that he's going crazy, that there's <em> something </em> off out there.</p><p>“Shh,” says Terry. He kneels in front of Frank, one hand on his knee and the other on the bedspread, and smiles when Frank unknots the tie on his pajama pants. “You're stressed, honey. Overthinking things. Lemme take your mind off everything.”</p><p>Later, too fast, he smiles at Frank and kisses him sweetly. His lips taste like semen, alkaline and salty, and he tsks when Frank moans into his mouth and reaches for him in turn. “Don't you worry,” he says, pushing him back ‘til Frank’s got no choice but to fall back onto the pillows, lifting his hips enough to drag his pajamas back over his spit-damp dick.</p><p>“Lights off, sweetheart,” Terry says, pulling the coverlet up high and patting Frank's forearm. “Tomorrow is another day.”</p><p><em> Sweetheart, </em> something in his mind chants. <em> Sweetheart, summers, sweetheart, </em> over and over again ‘til Frank falls asleep and dreams of nothing.</p><hr/><p>Life is good for Frank. Married six years in June to Art, a beaming proud father to Flick and Sam. Frank wakes at seven each Saturday morning and does the gardening around their tidy bungalow, pulling weeds and mowing the lawn. If the weather is good he sweeps the porch and washes his navy blue 2016 Toyota Sienna, if the weather is bad he cleans the garage and ignores the basement. The family goes to Mass on Sunday, all of them together in their hardy suits and swifty-outgrown best dresses. They always sit on the left side of the church, close enough that his girls can watch the smoke from the thuribles slowly rise into the rafters, best behaviour guaranteed by the promise of a big diner breakfast afterwards.</p><p>It's everything Frank’s ever wanted; a good job and a wonderful husband and the Lord blessing him with two great little girls that he spoils rotten. It’s a great life. Frank couldn't imagine anything better. </p><hr/><p>It’s easier when he’s asleep. Nathan finds Frank in his dreams, catches him by the shoulders and stares intently at his face, searching for something Frank doesn't recognise until he shakes himself loose. </p><p>They walk together in Frank's dreams. Around the block under the autumn leaves, hand in hand in the sunshine, down to the park to sit on the bench seat by the small lake. They sit with their thighs pressed together and Nathan’s thick arm wrapped around his shoulder, and Frank thrills in the feeling of being indulged and held, a feeling foreign and secret and beyond desirable. </p><p>It's a dream, Frank knows that. No shame in a dream. He watches Nathan’s mouth, looks at the way the afternoon sun makes his milky blind eye look almost blue. </p><p>“I’ve always been faithful,” he tells Nathan. “I've never cheated on Paul before.” He watches the way Nathan’s lips part as he breathes out heavily, a great gale blowing from the very depths of his ribs. He looks ravenous, Frank realises, and it makes him burn up hot inside. </p><p>“I've never cheated,”he says again, even as he thinks about how much he wants it. It's wrong, a sin of pride and lust, and if he doesn't get Nathan in him, on him, his bones will burn to charcoal and his blood will turn to ash and he will blow away in the wind, unconsumed, unfulfilled.</p><p>Nathan <em> Nathan Nathan Summers Cable Nathan </em> laces his fingers through Frank’s own and tugs him onto his lap, holding him close. He kisses Frank’s temple and says, ragged, “I need you to tell me where you are, sweetheart.” </p><p>His mismatched eyes crease on the corners when Frank shakes himself loose and licks into his mouth instead, kissing him hungry and frantic. He takes Nathan by the hand and drags him to the middle of the green, open and exposed under a brilliant blue bowl of autumn sky. </p><p>“Down,” he says. “I want you here. Lay down, c’mon, lay down.”</p><p>“No hiding,” says Nathan, looking up at him, silver hair shining under the midday sun.</p><p>“No hiding,” Frank agrees. His mouth is dry as the desert, guts in free fall as he looks down at the huge man under him watching Frank with an expression that speaks volumes about longing and hunger and readiness, taking his hand and pulling Frank down to the grass.</p><p>Frank dreams about rucking Nathan’s shirt up, filling his hands with the thick muscle of his gut and burying his face between Nathan’s pecs. He dreams of feeling Nathan’s broad hands scratch up his thighs and dig into his cheeks and pull him down so <em> CableCable </em>Nathan can grind up against his ass, hard and hot and huge. He's broad and thick-hipped between Frank's thighs, wide enough to strain his hips. The grass grinds green into Frank's knees as he strips out of the shirt his husband chose for him and pulls off the undershirt his husband bought for him in a pack of five at the Shopper’s A-Mart, and Nathan squeezes his pecs and pinches his nipples ‘til Frank gasps out a thin animal noise he's never heard himself make before.</p><p>The skin on his chest pinks up, goes blotchy and red as Nathan pulls at his thick chest hair and claws into the meat of his pecs, hard enough to bruise. Just a dream. Nothing stays in a dream. “Fantastic,” Nathan breathes, looking up at him like Frank hung the stars. “God, you're fantastic.”</p><p>The smell of sun-warmed chlorophyll fills his nose as Nathan gets his hands on him and rolls them over, green grass and hot skin and old antiperspirant and sour sweat ground into the armpits of his shirt, smells that Frank knows and wants and doesn’t know and still wants. </p><p>“I miss you,” Frank tells the sky, eyes half-closed as Nathan sucks a nasty bruise into his neck and Frank thinks,<em> I didn’t know I liked this. </em>“Stupid. Stupid. I don’t even know you and I miss you.”</p><p>Nathan says his name, ragged and frayed, and stops for a long moment, breathing hot and damp into Frank's neck. “Think,” he says, urgent, then says it louder. He rolls onto his elbow, up enough to stare down at him with an intensity that blots out the ripe heavy sun over his shoulder. “Think. Frank. You gotta think, focus. Just a word. Just a place, something to help me find you. I'll give it to you however you want, we can pretend all over again, but you gotta <em> thi--” </em></p><p>Frank wakes up in his bed, hard and wet and sticking to his pajama pants. He squeezes himself through the thin cotton, thinking about the fading dream memory of big hard hands on him, and looks at his sleeping husband, blond hair on his pillowcase. He creeps off to the en-suite to masturbate quietly in the dark, toes digging into the bathroom mat as he turns his face to his shoulder to muffle his breath as he cums into his cupped palm.</p><p>Frank looks at himself in the mirror in the blue-grey light of night as he washes his hands, and wonders if he should feel guilty. He wonders if he should feel anything other than a vague sense of relief that ebbs up from somewhere deep inside him, foreign and unmoored. </p><hr/><p>Frank sees glimpses of a familiar face every now and then. A hot tingling feeling at the back of his skull, a glimpse of grey hair, someone standing head and shoulders over the crowd. <em> Safe, </em> something in his brain insists. <em> Known. Good. </em> He tries to find the source of the feeling, turning on his heel to follow someone into a store, pulling alongside a certain car on the highway, chasing what feels like half-glimpsed memories and vague feelings. but it always disappears before Frank can find whatever it is, whoever it is.</p><hr/><p>They attend Mass on Sundays, him and Joel and the girls, all dressed up in their best. They sit in the back, close to the exit, mindful that Laura had an upset stomach the night before. </p><p>He dutifully follows the sermon, nods at the right places, feels for his wallet when the plate is passed around. Laura tugs at his sleeve and says <em> Daddy </em> in a warning voice and he pats Craig on the thigh and says, “I got it, stay here, I got it.”</p><p>When he steps through the doors, there’s suddenly nothing. No Laura holding onto his hand in a sweaty death-grip. No church vestibule, no itch at his neck from his woolen suit. Just Cable standing there, huge and imposing, and Frank’s guts twist in instant foul nausea.</p><p>“Look at me,” says Cable, cool and commanding. “Look straight at me, Frank. Fight it.”</p><p>“You’re wearing yellow,” he says, gagging on the puke churning up the back of his throat. “Never seen you in yellow.”</p><p>Cable smiles despite himself, chuckles. “You've never seen me with my colours on? Missed opportunities. Where are you?”</p><p>“Don’t know,” he says. “North.”</p><p>“Where were you last? What’s the last thing you remember?”</p><p>“Boston,” Frank says instantly, a hand on his chest, knuckles pushing in like it’ll stop the roiling nauseous heaves in his gut through sheer force of will. His head spins, memories blurry ‘round the edges, offset a few degrees no matter how he looks at them. “Walsh family. Watching a money drop, recording faces at a business lot. Yesterday? Last night?” He chokes on spit and folds over, eyes closed. “Where the fuck am I?”</p><p>“Don't know,” says Cable. “I'm working on it. Logan said you fell off the face of the earth, no one knew you'd been--” He stops, catching himself. “I think you're somewhere northeast, well north of New York, being warehoused somewhere. Maybe you're in a coma, maybe you're drugged.” He pauses, waits for Frank to process what he's saying. </p><p>Frank's head beats like a drum whenever he starts trying to think towards what Cable is saying, like his brain is pushing him back and dragging him forward simultaneously. There's a void in his head, soft and nebulous and dense as a collapsing star that pulls him close, making him gag and choke whenever he tries to inch away. He hears what Cable is saying, <em> I've been looking for you </em> and <em> you're hard to reach </em> and <em> don't think about it, think around it, don't trip the trap, focus on me, Frank, focus on me. </em></p><p>He nods, feeling the world tilt a few degrees off axis. The acid churns in the back of his throat, thin and sour.</p><p>“This would be easier if you were a mutant, you know. Kinda inconsiderate of you.”</p><p>“Tough shit,” says Frank woozily, spitting bile. He looks up at Cable from under his brows, relief flooding through his system at the sight of him, big and confident and radiating control. “How’re you here?”</p><p>“I've got my ways,” says Cable, and shrugs at Frank's scowl. “It's less fun when I tell you that it's just moving through the psionic plane, looking for you. I've got help today. My mother, my sister. S’why I've been able to--” he waves, a loose-wrist gesture towards himself, banana yellow trim and all, “--punch through so cleanly. I've only had real luck finding you in your dreams before this.”</p><p>Frank listens to everything Cable just said and, for the sake of his sanity, files it instantly to his mental file marked Too Fucking Hard. He spits bile onto the ground by his feet, clearing his throat to spit again.</p><p>“Gotta be easier to just put a tracker on me.” </p><p>“I’ll put a bell on your neck for next time,” says Cable. He looks at Frank, thick brows beetled together, his expression briefly breaking into one of worry as he takes a step forward, hand outstretched. “By the Bright Lady… fuck, Frank, it's good to see you. Just, uh, keep going. Keep grabbing those wrong moments. Don't get too deep. I'm trying my best, sweeth--”</p><p>Cable’s hand on his shoulder <em> burns </em> searing hot and arctic cold, cut through his skin, melts his bones. Frank heaves on his own vomit, feels his throat seize as he takes a staggered step and the world goes black. </p><p>When he opens his eyes Laura says <em> daddy… </em> in a warning voice and Frank says, “I got this, I got you. Deep breaths, baby,” and scoops her up in his arms, her Sunday dress shining bright against the dull wool of his suit. </p><p>He stands on the church step in the morning sunshine and watches his little girl take deep breaths of fresh air, and wonders when he ever got to be so lucky. </p><hr/><p>There are moments when Frank feels like he's going crazy. There’s something in his world he can't place, something wrong, out of balance. A hand he can't grasp, a face he can't touch, a name on the tip of his tongue when he masturbates in the shower, already forgotten by the time he’s coming quietly down the drain. An unfamiliar voice in the street who calls his name, someone long gone by the time he turns around. A cool hand on his cheek, a warm hand at his back; all ephemeral and formless and driving him out of his head.</p><p>Frank finishes his workday and drives the long way home, circling the lake, knuckles blanched white on the wheel. He makes dinner and watches the Nets lose from the comfort of his recliner and holds Anna silently as she sleeps in his lap. That evening, long after the girls are put to bed and they're brushing their teeth shoulder to shoulder in their small en-suite, he confides to Will that something is wrong, that he's being followed, that there's <em> something </em> wrong with him.</p><p>“Shh,” says Will. “Silly thing, worrying about nothing.” He stands behind Frank and wraps his arms around his waist, waiting for Frank to nod before pushing his hands under his pajamas and stroking him hard. He smiles at him in the mirror, chin on his shoulder. “You're stressed. Overthinking things. Lemme take your mind off everything.”</p><p>Bare concrete walls. A bare lightbulb. The weight of someone’s chin on his shoulder, mesmerised by the slick sight of a huge hand, sticky with cum, choking Frank's dick mean enough to hurt. </p><p><em> I know this, </em> thinks Frank. Will strokes him lightly, steadily, and tuts softly when Frank breathes out, “Harder, c'mon. Make me take it.” </p><p>“I don't want to hurt you,” he says, eyes wide. “Why would I do that?”</p><p>Later, while Frank is half-watching <em> Kelly's Heroes </em> over the top of his novel, Will slides into bed next to him and strokes Frank's chest and pulls down his paperback enough to peck him on the lips, chaste and sweet. </p><p>“Stop worrying so much,” he says with a chuckle, cutting Frank’s attempt to kiss him properly off at the pass by pushing the book back up like a shield. “You're stressed. Next week we’ll go up to the lake, all of us, and you can get away from Greenacres.”</p><p>“Last good weekend of the season,” agrees Frank. He frowns. <em> Off, </em> he thinks. <em> Something's o-- </em></p><p>“Lights off, sweetheart,” Will says, rolling over and pulling the coverlet up high to his shoulder. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow is another day.”</p><p><em> Greenacres, </em> something in his mind chants. <em> Green green green hills summers greenacres, </em> over and over again ‘til Frank turns the page and the movie plays on. </p><hr/><p>
  <em> Greenacres. Greengreengreenacres.  </em>
</p><p>Frank cuts the mower and smiles as his husband brings him a glass of cola and lemon. </p><p>“You looked hot,” says Andrew, squeezing Frank's bicep. “Don't want you to faint out here.”</p><p>“Not a chance.” Frank drains half the glass in long swallows, licking his lips where the lemon slice left a tart bitter taste. “You know I like hard work.”</p><p>“I know you do,” he says, raising an eyebrow and laughing when Frank rolls his eyes and stage whispers,<em> "Shh, shhh, not in front of the kids."</em></p><p>“Hey honey,” he asks. “Have you ever heard of a place called Greenacres?”</p><p>“Not that I can remember.” Andrew fusses with the collar of Frank's shirt, smiles at him sweetly. “Don’t worry about it, darling. Tomorrow is another day.”</p><hr/><p>Frank sobs as Nathan shifts his weight and fucks him in long smooth strokes, the hand on Frank’s thigh clutching at him, squeezing in an odd-kilter rhythm. It feels so good, like they've done this hundreds of times before, like Nathan knows how to use him in just the right ways. </p><p>This isn't Frank's dream. This has something else bleeding into it, echoes of something that he should know, right on the tip of his tongue. Nathan presses him deep into the cushions of an overstuffed couch, soft brown leather stained dark by years of bare thighs. There's a rug under his cheek, knitted grey and soft and catching at his stubble as he moans broken and sweet.</p><p>“Please,” he says, arching his back, throwing his head back and forth as he rocks back onto Nathan. “Fuck, I love you. Fuck me, please.”</p><p>“Frank,” says Nathan <em> Nathan Summers Nathan Nathan Cable</em>, winded. He grabs Frank's hand from where he's petting at himself, stroking himself, lost in it. His fingers feel dense and solid where they lace through Frank's fingers, tougher than skin, hard as metal. “I know, sweetheart. I know, me too, I know.” He gets his knee underneath him, jostling Frank in the best way, making him gasp. “Love you so spinning much, Frank.”</p><p>The couch rocks under them, skidding backwards as Nathan fucks him with deep rolls of his hips, head bowed as he watches Frank though half-closed eyes as he babbles dumb dick-drunk nonsense. He arches his back and rides back as much as he can, panting out Nathan’s name like it’s being forced from his chest, every syllable shook loose by Nathan fucking him steady. </p><p>“Kiss me,” he demands and Nathan obliges like it was a command he'd been hoping for, folding Frank over and covering his face with chaste kisses, chuckling when Frank scowls and chases after him in turn. </p><p>“More,” Frank whines, digging his nails into Nathan's shoulder. “Please.”</p><p>“Love hearing you beg,” Nathan says. He indulges Frank with a single kiss, pulling back when he leans up after him. The lines at the corners of his eyes crease up as he looks down at Frank, affection slowly bleeding away to a sad seriousness. “I missed this so much. Missed you.”</p><p>He slows to a halt, hips sharp against the meat of Frank's thighs, brushing his lips against Frank's knuckles still hand-in-hand. Nathan takes a deep breath.</p><p>“You left,” he says haltingly. “You left me. Oaths sake, Frank. Why'd you leave?” </p><p>He stares up at him, uncomprehending. “I didn't--”</p><p>“You don't remember,” says Nathan, dropping his hand. “I know.” He rubs his eyes with the back of his forearm and sighs from deep down, ribs rising and falling like bellows. “You don't remember anything in here and you took me off the board out there.”</p><p>Frank feels the world lurch underneath him, brain sliding off-axis. “Out there?”</p><p>“It's all fake, Frank,” says Nathan tiredly. “Nothing here is real. Shit, you wouldn't let me through the door if this was real.” He braces his foot on the floor and gets his hands on Frank's hips, thumbs digging hard against the bone ‘til it starts to hurt. The couch legs squeak discordant against the floor as he fucks him hard and selfish, breath hissing 'through clenched teeth. “You're playing happy house in your head with a husband who's name you can't remember and I'm still so fucking miserable over you that I'm in here begging… for your… <em> scraps</em>.” The last word is paired with a thrust so deep that Frank gasps out in surprise, almost pained, and that breaks whatever spell Nathan is under. </p><p>He closes his eyes for a long moment before abruptly jerking back and getting to his feet, huge and naked and hard, looking down at Frank with an unreadable expression. </p><p>“Maybe this is for the better. Maybe you bring out the worst in me,” Nathan says, defeated. “Wake up, Frank,” he adds. “Or don't.” </p><p>Nathan’s mouth is a thin line, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he clearly works through a whole bunch of thoughts before committing to just one. “Maybe you're better off in here,” he says after a long quiet breath. “You're better off playing pretend.”</p><p>“Hey,” says Frank. “<em> Hey. </em> ” He swings his feet to the floor, reaches out for Nathan's wrist, heart racing, <em> playing pretend playing in here green hills greenacres estates summers nathan punisher frank home cable-- </em></p><p>The blackness punches into him like a freight train. It takes him, swallows him whole, fills his nose and smothers his mouth. It pours into Frank ‘til he's a dead weight, forgotten, sinking without a trace. </p><hr/><p>Life is good for Frank. Married six years in June to Chris, a beaming proud father to Angela and Cath. Frank wakes at seven each Saturday morning and does the gardening around their tidy bungalow, pulling weeds and mowing the lawn. If the weather is good he sweeps the porch and washes his eggshell beige 1996 Town &amp; Country, if the weather is bad he cleans the garage and ignores the basement. The family goes to Mass on Sunday, all of them together in their hardy suits and swifty-outgrown best dresses. They always sit on the left side of the church, close enough that his girls can watch the smoke from the thuribles slowly rise into the rafters, best behaviour guaranteed by the promise of a big diner breakfast afterwards.</p><p>It's everything Frank’s ever wanted; a good job and a wonderful husband and the Lord blessing him with two great little girls that he spoils rotten. It’s a great life. Frank couldn't imagine anything better. </p><hr/><p>Another night. Another dream. They walk through downtown together, hand in hand on a cool evening, looking in the shop windows at big screen tvs and doll houses and garden rakes. Frank looks at their reflection in the dark glass of a closed shop, Nathan big and broad and powerful at his side, and he knows. He <em> knows</em>. </p><p>“No hiding,” he says to himself, his tired little mantra. Nathan watches him in return, his thumb rubbing back and forth against Frank’s hand. “I want this,” he tells the glass. Then, his heart in his mouth, so scared he can hardly breathe, “I can't lose my girls.”</p><p>“Frank--”</p><p>“I want you,” he says in a rush. “I need this.” </p><p>Easier to say these things in a dream. He’ll wake up in the morning next to his husband and get up and go to work, and he'll be happy and content because he is happy and content. But - and there's always a but - in his dreams he feels <em> alive. </em> It feels real, he feels real. In his dreams there is cool air in his lungs and the sun shines warm on his face and he holds the heavy weight of Nathan's hand in his and he wants that; Frank wants <em> all of it, </em> he's starving for it, ready to gorge himself on it ‘til he's sick. </p><p>“I’ll leave him,” he tells the figure standing silent in the glass. “I'll pack a bag.”</p><p>“Come with me,” Nathan says, and tugs Frank down the block, ‘round the side of McTavish’s Drapery and onto the broad service road behind. It's almost beautiful; the bright moonlight painting the clapboard walls in a pattern of black and white, Nathan's hair shining angelic silver. </p><p>“This is for me,” Nathan says apologetically, holding him close. He cups Frank's face in his hand and strokes his nails through Frank's hair, crowds up against him so Frank's got no choice but to look up and lean back, dwarfed by the big powerful man kissing him. Nathan kisses Frank like he knows him, like he's always known him, tongue darting against Frank's lips as he lingers. He sighs into Frank’s mouth and, clear as fine crystal, Frank realises that he's not the only person here capable of being selfish. </p><p>“I miss you,” Nathan says like a confession, words brushing against the corner of Frank’s mouth. He kisses him again, and again, holding him so tight and close that Frank’s head spins. </p><p>He rests his hands on Nathan's thick shoulders, spreads his fingers to try and grasp all the muscle tense under his shirt. His thumbs brush against the side of Nathan's throat and the steady drumbeat of Nathan's heart under his touch make him feel like he's living, truly living for purely selfish, hedonistic reasons for maybe the first time in his life. </p><p>“You don't have to go anywhere,” says Frank. “Stay with me for real.”</p><p>Nathan kisses him one last time and reluctantly puts some space between them. He smooths his hand over Frank's cheek, an action so tender coming from a hand so huge and gnarled, and gives Frank a sad smile. </p><p>“In another time I'd say this is what you deserve,” he says, thumb riding the rise of Frank's cheekbone. “A way to forget.” He pauses, takes a moment. “Live a life that-- shit, that <em> you </em> won't give you.”</p><p>He takes a deep breath and wraps his arms back around Frank, warm and heavy, bent over so his head nocks tidily into the curve of Frank's neck. He sighs and says, “Let it happen, don't fight it, don’t fight me,” and--</p><p>Frank's head fills with dust and noise and smoke. He sees himself, a version of himself, scowling and spattered in blood, red leaking down his cheek, staining the ripped sleeve of his shirt. Holsters at his thighs, gunpowder burns on his hands, a heavy black rifle in a sling hanging at his hip. He looks furious, mouth down turned, exhaling hard. </p><p>There's a body at his feet, Frank realises with slow dawning horror. Bodies, plural. A shattered skull, a sharp knife edge of bone hanging grotesquely through broken skin. </p><p>“The hell,” he says. Nathan says <em> shhh </em> under his breath, eyes closed. His forehead feels sticky-hot against Frank's temple, his breath brushing against his cheek in measured even puffs. </p><p>The picture in his head changes, and changes, and changes. Blood, oceans of blood, scabbed raw knuckles curved ‘round a knife handle, a sunny day in the park with gleaming pillars of glass and steel sparkling in the distance. The workhorse bark of a gun spitting fire, the elegant arc of a grenade arcing through the air, screaming, so many screams. Some of them are Frank's own screams, a primal animal bellow that reverbs through his lungs and rattles his ribs and makes him suck back a breath off-kilter, throat seizing on nothing. </p><p>The sour hot wind of a subway tunnel, a jungle sticky and hot and green. The slept-in musk of old sheets and stale sex and faded cologne and a lukewarm beer going skunky on a bedside table, the smell of hot sand baking under a desert sun. Frank breathes it in, breathes in the scent of the man holding him, <em> good good home good yes, </em> and flinches at the sensory overload of hot pavements and dirty alleyways and hot gun oil and sticky blood and dollar store strawberry condoms and burnt diner coffee taken black with two sugars; a wall of smells in his head but not in his nose, untethered and unreal.</p><p>“Stop,” he says, pushing away. Nathan might as well be rooted into the earth, breathing harder as he tightens his arms ‘round Frank and grunts in annoyance.</p><p><em> Stop. Stop fighting. </em> The words peal through his head like the tolling of a church bell, final and total, bouncing off his skull and through his brain and back again. <em> Stop. You need this. </em></p><p>Spent casings spinning on concrete in the summer sun. Front Towards Enemy in solid no nonsense letters, raised high enough to be traced by fingertips in the total dark. A short solid man with thinning hair and owlish glasses rolling his eyes as he presses a kiss to Frank's temple. A sense of rage, a sense of control. The snow, a skull. An unshaven and shirtless nuggety little guy leaning against the door of a sleek back jet, dirty jeans half-unbuttoned as he gestures <em> come inside </em> , intentions clear <em> . </em> Control, so much control, a total mastery of fear and elation and sorrow and grim bloody-minded joy beaten into submission by practice and willpower. </p><p>Frank calmly holding a long elegant belt of gleaming brass as he feeds it through an ugly piece of black pig iron, punching solid core steel into an advancing wave of men in suits. Heads and necks and chests and hands exploding like old fruit, a steady track of destruction that sweeps back and forth and cuts ‘em down like sapling timber. A warm metal hand gleaming oily dark and midnight blue, wrapped ‘round Frank's neck in a touch so gentle that it’s barely there, stroking the rise and fall of Frank’s throat as he throws his head back on soft slept-in pillows and whines a sweet chorus of thin pleading noises as he gets fucked so good he can't speak. </p><p><em> Home, </em> his brain says. <em>Real, home. </em></p><p>“Stay with me,” Nathan says. Frank can feel the effort rippling through him, muscles corded up like steel cable as he holds Frank close, panting noisy now. “Chase… chase that thought. I want to take you home, sweetheart.”</p><p><em> Home, </em>his primal brain screams, a sound ripping out of somewhere so deep and forgotten that Frank doesn't recognise its voice. It rages at him even as Frank gags on the foul nausea that crashes through him as he tries to follow that thought, hot and slippery like bleeding meat, twisting away from his clumsy attempts to grasp at it. </p><p>“C’mon,” hisses Nathan<em> CableSummersNathanCable</em>. “Cmon, fucking-- come <em> on </em> Frank.”</p><p>Then, pristine and clean, Frank sees himself standing calm, weight on one hip, wiping away the blood that's trickling down his cheek with the back of his hand and spitting over his shoulder. </p><p>It's a beautiful sunny day outside. Blue skies and not a cloud in sight, just visible through the wide open doors of the light and airy warehouse they're standing in. There are bodies scattered across the floor, broken and bleeding. “Cable. C’mon,” he says, terse. “Less staring, more moving.” </p><p>Nathan <em> NathanCableSummersNathan </em> laughs, steps into view. He's sweating through his long skintight sleeves, dark and wet under his armpits and his hair matted to his forehead, a massive rifle hefted onto his shoulder like it weighs less than a feather. “All clear on the shop floor,” he says. His milky blind eye gleams like a coal and he looks up thoughtfully, tracking the strip lights to an office cabin perched up in the far wall rafters. “Three upstairs,” he says after a long moment. “They're not happy to see us.”</p><p>“Yeah?” says Frank, memory-Frank, smiling in a way that stops well short of his eyes. “Well I'm fuckin’ thrilled to meet ‘em.”</p><p>“I knew you would be,” says Nathan. His eye burns bright, spits cold light for a moment. It lights Frank's face cool blue and makes the shadows jump ‘round his face as Nathan steps past him, touching Frank's shoulder like he can't help himself. “C’mon sweetheart,” he adds, nodding at the staircase up to the office. “Let's go meet the neighbours.”</p><p>And then there's… there's nothing. Just a quiet alleyway on a cool night, gravel crunching under his feet. Nathan is breathing hard into his neck, hot damp air, his arms so tense around Frank that he feels like he might break like a snapped wire. There's no warehouse. There's no bodies, there's no heavy rifle against his hip. </p><p>“You gotta remember,” says Nathan. He cups Frank's face in the bowl of his palm, hot and sweaty against Frank's cheek. “Bright Lady, Frank. It's in there somewhere, you just need to remember.”</p><p>“Jesus and Mary,” says Frank, now-Frank, staring at Nathan’s face. He shoves Nathan away from him, shakes his hand away from Frank’s cheek, takes a step back so fast he nearly trips over his feet. “Why did your eye do that? Who the hell are you?”</p><p>“Someone who really wants you back,” says Nathan, gamely attempting a wry delivery. The joke lands flat. His smile doesn't reach his eyes. He looks tired, and old, and burnt out. </p><p>“I'm supposed to know you,” Frank says. “I know you, don't I?” </p><p>“Yeah,” says Nathan quietly. He doesn't bother faking a smile at all this time. “We know each other.”</p><p>Frank pinches the bridge of his nose. “So who are you,” he asks. “For real. Out--,” he pauses, shaking his head to dispel the sudden spike of nausea churning in his belly. “Out there. Or not here.”</p><p>“Better question is, who are you,” says Nathan gently, big hands on Frank's shoulders, holding him at arms reach. “Your name is Frank Castle. You were born Frank Castiligone but you changed it to beat a mandatory discharge from the Marines. You’re 49, turning 50 in a month. You were born on the floor of an ER waiting room in Long Island, a fact you find grimly funny when you’re drunk.” He pauses, then gamely plunges forward. “Twenty-six years ago your family was murdered, but you survived. You had a breakdown and started hunting their killers, executing them across New York and New Jersey. Within a year you discarded your name, your identity, your home.” </p><p>Nathan clears his throat, radiating pure discomfort for a brief moment. “The media started calling you Punisher and you've been in a one man war under that name for… oath, let me think. Twenty-three years, give or take.” He pauses again, searching Frank's face for a flicker of recognition. “They're all dead, Frank. Everyone who killed your family is dead. You saw to it within five years. They're dead, their children are dead, their friends are dead. You could've stopped then but you changed your focus and kept going because you made it your war, Frank. It's a never-ending war with an always changing enemy. You love it, Frank, because it's your war and you're the Punisher. You're God’s perfect killing machine and you <em> love </em> it.”</p><p>“Bullshit”</p><p>Nathan shakes his head. “I think you love it more than anything, even-- You love it. It’s your entire world. ” He lets his hands drop from Frank's shoulders, folding his arms over his broad chest. “You and I have been working together for nearly four years. We’re together, too. Ah. We <em> were </em> together, in a manner of speaking. A couple of years, on and off.”</p><p>Frank stares at him, mouth open. “Bullshit. My girls--”</p><p>“You never told me any of that, y’know,” continues Nathan, cutting him off. “About your family. I knew but you never wanted to tell me. I thought you might tell me when you met my daughter but you clammed up harder. Maybe you thought it'd make me think differently about you, or I'd… I don't know, Frank. I can read minds and I still don't know what you're thinking half the time.” He laughs, a half-formed bark of noise that stops as soon as it starts. “Think. This place, any of it… it's not who you are. I knew it was all shit the moment you wanted draft beer in a frosty mug. You always drink beer from a bottle, Frank. Cans if you're broke, wine if you've stolen it. I poured you beer in a pint glass the first time you stayed the night and you sat there naked on my bed, flipping through my DVR and pissily thinking at full volume about how much you hated the Mr Oktoberfest print on the mug.” Nathan gives him a hopeless lopsided smile. “Frank, I chose it ‘cause I knew you'd hate it. Knew right then and there I was gonna be in trouble where you're concerned.”</p><p>Nathan laughs again, bitter. “Fuck, they can't even implant the right kind of memories. I know there's a part of you that still wants a picket fence and a dog in the yard but by the Lady, Castle, not like this. You deserve better than this pretend polo shirt fantasy bullshit. I <em> know </em> you do.”</p><p>He grinds to a halt, staring intently at Frank’s face, like he's trying to see into Frank, see right through Frank.</p><p>“You need to remember, Frank. I can't find you until you remember.”</p><p>“That's--” <em> Subway tunnels, weeping blood, broken teeth. </em>Frank rubs a hand over his face, forcing the images out of his head. “It can't be. It's not true.”</p><p>Nathan looks at him, mouth drawn tight. </p><p>“I don't… none of that is real. You're fucking with me.” <em> Hot brass, hot semen, burning hair. </em>Frank takes another step back, and another, staring at him wild-eyed. “I live here. I'm married to--”</p><p>“To who,” bites out Nathan, temper fraying like brittle rope. “To fucking <em> who, </em>Frank? What's his name?”</p><p>“To--”</p><p>“What are your girls’ names, Frank?” </p><p><em> Home, </em> howls something in his brain, animal, beastial. <em> Home, home. </em>It sounds like a dog baying in despair, throwing itself against heavy chains deep in the back of his mind. </p><p>“Lisa!” It's the first word that slams into his mind, and the moment it leaves his lips Frank doubles over and retches on the gravel alleyway, violently sick. “Lisa,” he says again, his voice thin.</p><p>Nathan grabs him, shakes him like a rag doll. “That's her,” he says urgently. “That's her. Lisa. Your daughter's name is Lisa. Keep going, Frank. Your son, his name, tell me his name.”</p><p>“Frank Jr,” he pants. “Frank David. David after Br--,” he chokes, tries again. “Brubeck.”</p><p>He twists free and vomits bile, and there's something in his head, something heavy, expanding. The world spins and Nathan pulls him upright, towering over him. They stand so close, nose to nose, breathing in each other’s hot sour air as Nathan's dead eye is blazing like the sun, blinding Frank, scouring him out like acid as the thing in his head thrashes against his skull ‘til the bone cracks and his eyes fail and he howls out <em> Greenacres, Greenacres, fucking Greenacres </em> before the blackness takes him for good.</p><hr/><p>Life is good for Frank. Married six years in June to Aaron, a beaming proud father to Junie and Kate. Frank wakes at seven each Saturday morning and does the gardening around their tidy bungalow, pulling weeds and mowing the lawn. If the weather is good he sweeps the porch and washes his pearl grey 2006 Honda Odyssey, if the weather is bad he cleans the garage and ignores the basement. The family goes to Mass on Sunday, all of them together in their hardy suits and swifty-outgrown best dresses. They always sit on the left side of the church, close enough that his girls can watch the smoke from the thuribles slowly rise into the rafters, best behaviour guaranteed by the promise of a big diner breakfast afterwards.</p><p>It's everything Frank’s ever wanted; a good job and a wonderful husband and the Lord blessing him with two great little girls that he spoils rotten. It’s a great life. Frank will never imagine anything better. </p><hr/><p>There's nothing. There’s blinding light. There's thick liquid cascading down his body, there’s something heavy on his face. Gravity sinks its teeth into him, heavier and heavier as the liquid drains out ‘til it feels like his lungs are collapsing and his spine is compacting like coal.</p><p>Frank thrashes to turn his head, then thrashes harder when he feels the tube threaded through his nose and down his gullet, the anchors on his hands and feet and lashed around his chest. Frank fights, blind and bound, grunting ‘til someone barks out, “For fucks sakes, Tiny, make yourself useful.”</p><p><em> Stop, </em> says a voice of calm in his head. <em> Frank. Stop. </em> There's golden static behind his eyes, warm and calm, and a thousand hands gently petting his hair, taking off the thing covering his face, holding his arms, holding him gently as the first gruff voice says, “Hold him still, I don't wanna cut anything important now that we've actually got him.”</p><p>Motion around his body, pulling and tugging, the click of metal against metal. He can't see anything, blinded by the burning light, gagging at the feel of something lodged in his throat, gagging harder as it starts to move, dragging up and out through his sinuses.</p><p><em> I've got you. </em> Calm, steady. <em> I've got you, sweetheart. It's a gastric tube. Let him take it out. </em></p><p>“C’mon pretty girl. Up and at ‘em.” A warm dry hand takes him hand in hand, squeezing his fingers and giving him a lil’ tug forward that’s less gently encouraging to move and more giving him zero choice in the matter. “Can't hide in your box forever, Frankie.”</p><p>Frank feels like his legs have been knocked out from under him, trembling under his weight, fragile as a fawn. He takes a tentative blind step and nearly goes ass over tits, legs buckling out from underneath him ‘til he’s caught by someone stepping to his side and catching his weight. He breathes in old sweat and stale cigarette smoke, and Logan says, “You gotta lose weight, Princess.”</p><p>“Shut the hell up,” Frank gasps out, voice fractured and so hoarse it barely registers as human to his own ears. </p><p>“Good t’see ya too,” says Logan, jostling Frank so he's leaning heavier against him. His hand feels steady under Frank's armpit, keeping him moving, keeping him balanced. “He's good, Tiny. Stop pacing.”</p><p>“Bright fucking Lady,” says Cable, and Frank feels his heart lodge in his mouth. "Frank. We are <em>glad</em> to see you."</p><p>Summers. </p><p>It's been months since they last spoke. Months since Switzerland, months since Frank called it off. Frank can't see him, can't see shit in a room this bright, but he can <em> feel </em> him, feel him like he’s a lodestone, like Frank is a magnet being dragged off-course by the psychic weight of Cable. Just like always.</p><p>“Boyfriend over there has been busting his ass for months looking for you,” Logan says from under his arm. “We’ll get you sorted, wifey, then you’re gonna have to make him a real nice dinner as a thank you.”</p><p>He opens his mouth to refute at least three things in that statement but closes it, words dying on his tongue. </p><p>Logan clears his throat. “Something I'm missin’?”</p><p>“Nothing to worry your fuzzy little head about.” Then heavy steps, Cable moving towards him. “Got a towel for you.”</p><p>“You're naked n’ covered in goo,” says Logan helpfully. “Got a pervert beard too.”</p><p>“Not helping,” croaks out Frank, but he accepts the weight of the towel draped over his shoulders with only a twitch.</p><p>“Rarely make a point of it,” says Logan, but he squeezes Frank's ribs gently and shoulders more of his weight as they inch across a space Frank can't see, going somewhere he can't predict. “You're good, Princess.”</p><p>“You'll be fine,” says Cable softly. “It's… oath, it's good to see you again, Frank.”</p><p>The next few hours pass in a blur. He gets toweled off like a child and carried like a sack of potatoes through a procession of identical hallways out to a waiting truck. Frank falls asleep with his face pressed against the cool window glass in the back seat, ignoring Logan’s performative grumbling about having to smoke with the window down and barely mindful of Cable’s thoughtful expression in the rear view mirror.</p><p>When Frank comes too he realises that he's been washed and dressed, and, more worryingly, that he's too tired to even care that he's been so out of it that he let that happen. He's in what looks like a small break room surrounded by snack food, groggily slumped over in a cafeteria chair with a mug of something warm and clear set by his hand.</p><p>“Drink up,” says Cable. “It tastes like hell but it'll get your electrolytes back in order.”</p><p>His hand shakes when he picks up the mug, shakes still when he uses both thin hands to steady it. Cable wisely says nothing until Frank chokes down most of it and, in lieu of thanks, says that it tastes like shit.</p><p>“It's shit but it's medicated shit, so at least you know it tastes bad for a reason.” Cable leans against the bench, shoulders against the cabinets, and waits until Frank reluctantly meets his eyes.</p><p>“Thanks for the find,” he says. </p><p>Summers looks at him carefully, expression neutral. “Why do you remember?”</p><p>Frank shakes his head, sharp and short. “The Walsh drop. Yesterday.”</p><p>“Two months I've been looking for you,” says Cable. He fiddles for a moment with something on the bench, stalling for time before he tosses a couple of neon coloured tubes of yoghurt onto the table with a nod, a silent instruction to eat. When he speaks his voice has the gavel rasp of someone truly exhausted, worn out to the roughest ends. “Two months plus a month before anyone knew you were gone. You were in that animated suspension box for at least three months, Frank. Maybe even longer again, an extra week.”</p><p>Frank closes his eyes for a moment. He'll unpack that later; really give the concept of letting himself be snatched like an idiot <em> and </em> letting it happen for three goddamn months the ice-cold rage it deserves when he’s rested up and got his bearings back and has enough energy in reserve to lose his fucking mind. </p><p>“Three months,” says Cable again. “Give it time. Your brain has been--”</p><p>“Fluffed and folded,” says Logan from the door. He nods at the tubes of yoghurt on the table by Frank's elbow, two neon bright tubes laid out side by side. “Eat up, Princess. Hank isn't gonna let you near a steak for days so you might as well have some sugar in the meantime.”</p><p>“You don't remember anything else,” presses Cable. “Nothing about your time in the simulation? No landmarks, no events, no conversations?”</p><p>Frank shakes his head, <em> no </em>, intent on getting the yoghurt open. His weak fingers slip on the plastic and he cusses under his breath, exhausted. “Told you. Was watching the Walsh family move, then Pintsize over there is hauling me out of a box. That's it.”</p><p>“Are you sure? Take your time, don't--”</p><p>“The man said he's got nothing,” said Logan, exhibiting a sense of good timing for once in his life. “Drop it.” He rips the yoghurt open and hands it to Frank, staring him down. </p><p>For once Frank acquiesces to Logan, taking the yoghurt from him with a mumble. It tastes like artificial strawberries, so sweet it makes his teeth hurt, and he swallows the whole tube in two mouthfuls. Logan hands him the next one, the top already torn open to prevent an argument from even starting. </p><p>“Like Snowball said, you've been boxed up for a while,” he says, taking a seat kitty-corner to Frank and leaning back ‘til the front legs of his chair lift clean off the ground. “Not gonna debrief you today. You’re not in any shape to do more than tongue that yoghurt and snore.” He ignores Frank’s attempt at defending himself. “They did something to you there, looked after you and fed you something so you're not totally skin’n’bone, but Hank is gonna come have a look at you and see what we can do ‘bout the fact you look like a wet cat with some chicken legs to match. You've got the muscle mass of an old man and you haven't eaten solid food since some ‘private investors’--” he makes the quotes with his fingers, leather gloves creaking with the motion, “--thought they'd be able to box you up and do a wool wash on your brain.” He nods at the yoghurt tube Frank is sucking dry. “Even that's gonna go through you like a rocket. Trust me, I know what you've got comin’. Being locked up for a brainwash and experimentation is old news in this neighbourhood.”</p><p>Cable makes to say something but Logan cuts him off, one finger raised in the air. </p><p>“As a favour to me,” he continues, ignoring Cable scowling behind him. “Hank is gonna get you stable and you're gonna have a few doses of Krakoan wonder pills to kick start that meat into working again. Doctor Carter will keep an eye on yer idiot ass once you're back in the city.” He gives Frank a shrewd look. “I know you've got some dead goombah’s pad stacked with gym equipment stashed away somewhere. Take your pills like a good boy and lift some weights and you'll be back and stacked in a couple of months, tits out as always.”</p><p>“Jesus,” mutters Frank. “You thought of everything, huh.”</p><p>Logan smirks and sits forward, chair banging square back onto the concrete floor. “Yup. I'm a real sweet guy and I owe your dumb ass a couple. You can make the rest up to me when you're back in full form.” He waggles his eyebrows, grinning when Frank looks away with a scowl. </p><p>“I'm gonna get Hank,” he says, punctuating his sentence with a slap against the table. “And find someone to get you some more--” Logan squints at the empty yoghurt tubes, “--Action Goo Strawberry Boom.”</p><p>Frank rubs at his temples. “You're loving this.”</p><p>“More’n you could ever guess.” He pats Frank on the shoulder as he leaves, artificially heavy hand striking hard on wasted muscle, and squeezes just once for good measure. “Be nice to Hank, Princess. Play nice. And you, you ease up a bit.” The last few words are shot in Cable’s direction, brooking no argument, and he snorts in derision when Cable mutters something unkind in response.</p><p>Frank closes his eyes when the door closes softly, keenly aware of the muted sounds of Cable moving around the room. “Who’s Hank? Someone I’m supposed to know?”</p><p>“Same Hank who fixed my arm,” says Cable. “Big and blue, you can't miss him in a crowd. He'll get you right.” He doubles back on his pacing and stops in Frank's line of sight, leaning on Logan’s abandoned chair. The fingers on flesh hand look red and raw where he's gripping the backrest, knuckles barked and rough and his nails chewed back to the quick. “You really don't remember a thing?”</p><p>“Told you,” says Frank, tipping his head back. He feels exhausted down to his bones, tired in a way he hasn't felt for years, struggling to stay awake. “I got nothing for you.”</p><p><em> You should know that, </em> he adds resentfully, too tired to care whether or not Cable is eavesdropping on his thoughts. </p><p>“Frank--”</p><p>“This must be Mister Castle,” says a new voice, and Frank struggles to roll his head back up to stare at the huge shock of dark blue fur filling the doorway. </p><p>He blinks.</p><p>“Something on my face?” Big Blue strokes his… his muzzle? Frank’s brain gamefully attempts to fill in the landscape of the mountain of sleek blue fur and thick lion’s mane and incongruous spectacles perched at the end of his broad nose. Hank, Frank guesses, mindful that there's a good chance that whoever Logan and Cable have delivered him to could contain multiple blue furred people. </p><p>Then, sluggish, his brain throws up the phrase <em> duct tape. </em> Cable, useless dying arm on the floor by his feet, ‘medical duct tape.’ “The stars n’ garters guy.”</p><p>Frank and Hank both ignore Cable making a half-muffled <em> heh </em> noise from the corner of the room. Hank ducks under the doorframe and holds up a leather doctor’s bag that'd be quaint on any other person, ‘cept that this one is sized up big as a suitcase. </p><p>“I'm Doctor McCoy. Hank. Our mutual friend Logan has told me to, and I quote directly here Mr Castle, ‘get your ass fixed’ in exchange for waiving a large poker debt. If you don't mind, Nathan…?” He drops his bag on the table, over Frank's empty yogurt wrappers, and waits expectantly for Cable to make his exit.</p><p>“Sure,” says Cable. He fiddles with his collar, hesitating. “If you remember anything at all, Frank… uh, reach out. We should talk.”</p><p>“Quit it,” says Frank. “Quit it, christ. Haranguing me ain't gonna make something appear.” He rubs at his eyes again, eyelids feeling like sandpaper. “What's your interest? Logan said there wasn't any mutant bullshit involved.” </p><p>Cable opens his mouth. </p><p>Cable looks at Hank. </p><p>Cable closes his mouth. </p><p>“Frank,” he starts. “Castle--”</p><p>“Whenever you're ready,” says Hank pleasantly to no one in particular.</p><p>“Sorry Doc,” says Frank. “Summers. Look. I appreciate the rescue, really. I owe you and Logan a sixer each, but I don't know what you're pressing me for. I got nothing, can't remember anything. Let it go.”</p><p>“I'll, ah, just minus a few points off your blood pressure,” says Hank under his breath.</p><p>“Oaths sake,” says Cable testily. “Sorry Hank. He's a real delight to deal with. Good luck with it, you’re gonna need it.”</p><p>“An extremely rich source of irony coming from you,” says Hank into his bag, busily pulling out a whole bunch of stuff that, as far as Frank can tell, all looks reassuringly normal and human-appropriate. He hangs an oversized stethoscope around his neck and spritzes his huge hands with antiseptic rinse, and makes a very pointed show of waiting for Frank and Cable to finish up whatever it is that's got Cable so squirrelly. </p><p>“Call me,” says Cable eventually, giving up the staring contest he's locked into with Frank, scowl to scowl. “Just call me. We should debrief. There are…” He trails off, looking around the room. “Things,” he ends lamely. “Things we need to talk about, if your memory starts filling in. There’s--”</p><p>Hank claps his huge hands together, smiling with a mouthful of bright white bestial teeth and cutting Cable off with unbreakable finality. “Shall we begin, Mr Castle?”</p><p>“Right,” says Frank, arm turned out for the blood pressure cuff he can see at the top of Hank’s bag. “Right. Yeah. Sorry Doc.”</p><p>If he plays along he can get this finished quickly, get whatever Krakoan mystery pills Logan’s arranged for him and shove them into his face, and retreat back to the city to lay low and lick his wounds. Maybe even retreat all the way to the mountains, to his cabin. Although, he thinks, watching the cuff get wrapped around his lean weak arm, maybe not until he’s got the strength back to walk a flight of stairs, let alone hike a mile through off-trail woods.</p><p>“I’ll see myself out,” says Cable after an awkward moment.</p><p>“Wonderful idea. Top shelf.” Hank rests his stethoscope bell on Frank’s inner elbow and gives him a look that Frank chooses to interpret as kind, or at least tolerant. “Please relax, Mr Castle.”</p><p>“Summers.” He looks at Cable silhouetted by the hallway door, his broad nose backlit by the warm yellow snap and flare of his dud eye. For a brief moment he feels his gut turn in hot interest, a pleasant twist of rushing warmth that he hasn’t felt since… well, since. Since Switzerland, since a cool Spring morning underneath heavy cotton sheets with Nathan's sleeping breath puffing warm and sour against his neck. He clenches his jaw for a second, swallows it all back down, buries that moment so fragile and human back down in the deep midnight dark where he can't touch it. “Thanks. I appreciate the save.”</p><p>“It’s fine, Frank.” Cable pauses, drums his fingers against the doorframe. “Any time. Say the word.”</p><p>Then he’s gone, and Frank is left with his thoughts in a cool room, his wrist being carefully held by a huge blue hand. Hank takes his blood pressure and listens to his pulse, calm and quiet and pointedly not saying a word.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey, look. If you can't write terrible melodramatic cheesy rescue content for yourself, who else is gonna do it? </p><p><a href="http://stryfeposting.tumblr.com">stryfeposting.tumblr.com</a>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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